


Easy (like Sunday Morning)

by ussgallifrey221b



Series: To Build a Home [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Mild Sexual Content, Parenthood, Pregnancy, dad!bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 09:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19353781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ussgallifrey221b/pseuds/ussgallifrey221b
Summary: And he thinks to himself, maybe this is the home he had been searching for all this time.





	Easy (like Sunday Morning)

**Author's Note:**

> Relevant [song](https://youtu.be/7XcTyEKSnYg) to listen to.  
> Series [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/ophefmg9lipoqsburavvkcp6j/playlist/0zrZJ0IjdaGcxCJRhQAp8u?si=nxJUr-BqS9anKWAsOcDRhA).

Growing up, Bucky had always pictured himself in a Brownstone. Some pretty little thing for a wife, kids running around their feet, sweet smells coming from the kitchen after a long day of work, and all of them crammed together in an idealistic dream of a home. These plans changed, naturally, after he fell off a train in Austria. And after spending two years on the run, some time in cryo, and five years being listed as dead, these things weren't really in his mind as a realistic opportunity.

And then he met you while taking over on a SHIELD stakeout. You seemed to keep running into each other over the next few months. Always managing to dish out a snarky comment his way. It had shocked him at first, then he warmed up to them - even managing to smile after the fifth meeting.  


_ "Oh, sure _ .  **_Now_ ** _ they bring in the  _ **_real_ ** _ heroes after we've done all the grunt work. Shall I roll out the red carpet for you?" _ Always said with a smile and a playful look in your eyes; never hard or callous.  


Even within the organization, he was used to people giving him  _ that  _ look. As if he couldn't be trusted after all this time. After the removal of the trigger words, the months of therapy, the whole saving the world thing; he was still just an ex-HYDRA assassin in some people's eyes.  


It had been on a mission in Vietnam, tracking down a section of A.I.M., that you had met up once again. Sitting in the crowded outdoor restaurant, passing off the relevant information to him over a bowl of pho and a plate of greasy spring rolls. Before you left, you had given the off-handed comment of how he now owed you a drink, since you had gone to the trouble of ordering food as a cover.

It had taken another three months before he was able to bring himself to follow up on that.

You got the apartment together not long after. Just a studio in the Heights. And it's not exactly like he had anything to bring into it. No furniture to speak of and only a handful of clothes and small mementos. He relied entirely on you for decorating. You made that place feel like home so damn fast. Not that Bucky knew what his definition of home was before that. He had walked the streets one day and found that his childhood home had been replaced by an upscale hotel. Home was a difficult word to define these days. He lived at the compound upstate. He had a bed and a closet, there were pillows and sheets and a rug. But that wasn't home. Of course, he could be a sap about it and say wherever you were he would have his home. Whatever you managed to do to this little studio, that was it. His ticket, right there. A big neon sign in the fog screaming  _ this is what a home should be _ .

Maybe a bit of it was disillusioned puppy love within those first few months. He would run off on missions with Sam or disappear for a stretch of time in an undisclosed location. While you transferred over to the local SHIELD branch operating out of Brooklyn. You'd eat pizza on the floor, got him to try out the Thai place down the street, even convinced him to eat some gluten-free all-vegan crap. It would be three in the morning and you had him swaying back and forth with his hands on your waist, dancing to some slow-jam Motown playlist. Staying up long enough to watch the sunrise from your apartment windows. Tangling together under cool white sheets well into the afternoon. And the real kicker? Just when everything was going the best he'd ever experienced? You found a kitten.

A little white fluff ball shivering on the step outside the apartment in the middle of January on your way home from work. He had stared it down when he came back a few days later, sitting there on the kitchen countertop, and  _ shedding _ everywhere. He had looked at your face, and dammit, now you two had a cat.

If his ma could see him now. How many alley cats he had tried to sneak into the house when he was growing up. Those cats learned to fly that day, as soon as she found them they would go sailing out the door. When he grew up, he wanted a tough dog, some companion that would always be at his side - man's best friend, and all of that. You called him Cat for a bit, out of lack for an original name. Eventually moving to Alpine. Though you would call him Al, for short. As if that wasn't the weirdest thing to do:  _ Al, stop scratching the couch. Al, stop licking your ass on my lap. _ What the hell did the neighbors think? That they had some strange live-in with questionable tendencies?  


He enjoyed climbing over you when you sat together on the couch, lazily kissing like time didn't exist in the apartment. Waking everyone with an oddly loud  _ meow _ at 4:30 every morning. Also finding the time to wake up from wherever he was just to jump up on the bed every time you two started feeling each other up.

But he also favored Bucky's lap over yours. He quickly became  _ his _ cat, even after you brought him in and adopted him. No matter the food or toys you gave out, Al would still curl his way around Bucky's legs, nuzzling his white fur all over the black tactical pants.

Things in Bucky's life never seemed to go to plan though. Right when he thought everything was perfect and he could actually enjoy himself and this little world you were building together, you got sick.  


Waving him off that just about everyone in the city was hit by the flu right now and it wasn't your fault that you didn't have a super serum keeping you healthy. Still going to work, confirming that at least three agents in your office were out sick. You were groggy, eyes fluttering shut right after dinner each night. He hated the sound of you vomiting. The dry heaves beyond the bathroom door had him pacing with an anxious energy.

_ "Buy me some soup and quite worrying _ , _ " _ You had said. But it kept going.  


From behind the bathroom door, a muffled,  _ "The flu doesn't magically vanish after five days, babe."  
_

Maybe a week later, when you were starting to feel more yourself, you had surprised him. Right as he was coming out from a shower, you stood in front of him with only a pair of leggings on.

_ "Do these look different to you?" _ You cupped your chest, staring down at your own breasts. A startled little sound had escaped his throat before he was laughing and grabbing a handful for himself. Enjoying the squeal from your lips as he thumbed over the darkened buds. He had kissed you, all slow and lazy. Much like everything that happened in the small studio; the place where the rest of the world didn't exist. He never wanted this to end, this could go on for eternity and he would have reached some level of nirvana.  


Bucky was a fool.

He had come back from Belarus three weeks later. You were gorgeous, all wrapped up in one of his hoodies. Fucking glowing and beautiful. A drink in the desert for his dehydrated body. All night and day, there was something hidden in your eyes; the corners of your plump lips. But he was too over the moon with emotion and pent up urges to dip his feet into those waters just yet.

Your eyes - your beautiful eyes - they were drawn with worry. It had taken three days, but it finally came out.

_ "Hey, I have an appointment on the seventh," _ you had said over a cup of tea. You were drinking that a lot more lately. Peppermint, sometimes ginger.

He had hummed in reply. It wasn't time for the yearly physicals already, was it? Or were you down with something again?

_ "I'd like you to come with me." _ Your eyes were brimming with something. It was enough for Bucky to put down his cup of coffee.

_ "Sure, doll. What for though?" _

You had fidgeted on the barstool. You were wearing one of his pullover sweaters, he liked seeing you in his clothes. It made something go off in his head, all protective and  _ hungry _ .

_ "It's with an obstetrician." _

He had laughed.  _ "A lady doctor? Babe, you really want me to go with you for one of those appointments?" _

More fidgeting.  _ "Lady doctor. And baby doctor." _

Bucky had turned to put away the bag of coffee grounds,  _ "Thank God we don't have to worry about that." _

You had been on something for years now, you had told him that the first time he had found his hands dipping under your skirt in a frenzied kiss behind the little late-night restaurant in Mombasa. Licking at the lingering taste of shawarma and sweat, fingers moving with a rushed excitement to pull down your panties. Moans throbbing in his ear as you clutched him tighter.

_ "Bucky." _

That look on your face said it all. He was hit with shock and fear and joy and dread and panic all at once.

The whole pregnancy was just that. Fear for you, your health, your mental stability. The little person growing inside of you. All the usual fears a parent-to-be could have. The worry of a miscarriage. And with the second trimester, it was the gripping fear of something going horrifically wrong and having a stillborn. Passing even further into the third, was the worry of premature labor. Everything out there was telling them signs to look out for, when to call a doctor. It was hell on fucking earth. The added fear in Bucky's mind had, of course, been what the hell was the serum going to do to the baby? It had been strong enough for them to conceive with birth control. It was HYDRA's bastard serum that was being passed into an innocent child.

And that was it, wasn't it? How the hell was he supposed to be a father? All the progress of therapy was being thrown right out the door. Him, an assassin, with so many fucking issues, was going to have a baby. You were perfect and amazing and were his life. You could be an amazing mother. He was going to tarnish something beautiful.

This went on for months, the lingering worries and fears. He couldn't even keep it from you, because he never could. You had gotten him a Boy Scout-esque book for new dads. He'd be lying if he said he didn't read through it all, all the way up to the tips for one-year-olds. And appointments with his therapist were happening even more than the weekly checkups with your doctor.

The little apartment changed, slowly, over the last few months of the pregnancy. Weapons that had been carelessly left out were now under lock and key and hidden out of reach. Candles and picture frames and little owl figurines were put in storage. A crib was shoved along your side of the bed. Alpine watched with a wary eye, much like Bucky did, as your little slice of paradise transformed and morphed into a new phase of existence.

And then there she was. All seven pounds and nine ounces of screaming pink flesh, arriving just after midnight on the fifth of October. Rebecca Elizabeth Barnes. So tiny, so perfect, so  _ loud _ .

He had been hesitant to touch her. Watching behind nurses’ shoulders as they cleaned her off and weighed and measured her. Fingers twitching against his thigh with each pained cry on the warming table. Gazing in wonder at her first bath over the sink, swaddled in the striped hospital blanket, the fine brown hair on her head combed to the side as they passed her over to you.

Watching her latch on and suckle herself off to sleep. Your eyes, so tired but shining with joy. As his girls slept in the darkened room, he waited on the edge of the brown recliner at the foot of the bed; watching. Listening to the soft sounds from the hallway, a baby's cries a few rooms down, the creak of a maintenance cart passing by. He glanced over at the two SHIELD agents on guard outside the door. What a world this little one would grow up in, all because of him.  


The stirrings from the bassinet pulled his attention. A squirming figure, trying to fight her way out of the swaddle, little lips smacking together - seeking you out. And then she was crying, a high pitched whimper moving to a wail. You awoke groggily, shifting over, moving the bed into a reclined position to reach over into the bassinet - such a natural. A finger held by a little hand, a soft touch to wispy hair. You leaned more, grimacing as you moved, trying to pick up the struggling bundle.

_ "Babe, can you help me?" _

He stood, slowly. Feeling every bit of his age as he crept over to the plastic bassinet. The little scrunched face whipped side to side with a howl. Bundled feet kicking violently in the constraints of the light blanket. And then he felt your gentle hand on his side.

_ "It's okay, Buck. She's your daughter.” _

Nodding with a gulp of nerves, he finally let his right hand reach out. The pad of his smallest finger caressed her little round pink cheek for a long moment, before slowly dipping down her jawline. She instinctively lifted her chin towards the touch, trying to suckle with frustrated gasps. Bucky let his finger be taken into her mouth. Pleasant little gurgles and moans as she latched with a gentle suck. His eyes were blown wide in wonder. His left hand clutched the edge of the bassinet with a  _ creak _ .

She pulled away with a high-pitched cry, unhappy with the lack of milk. He had looked over towards you with a bit of a wild gaze, feeling the panic building in his throat. Vibranium fingers mechanically  _ whirred _ as he fanned them out anxiously. He couldn't do this with just one hand. But, God, he was terrified. And what if he dropped her as he was handing her over to you? The thought of her tiny little head smashing onto the floor made his stomach turn with a sickening lurch. She was growing more impatient, wailing with breathy little gasps as she struggled back and forth.  


Bucky forced himself to move. Right hand gently scooping under her head, cupping the base of her skull and neck. Her head fit perfectly in the palm of his hand. Lifting her up, ever so slightly, he let his left hand move underneath the swaddle, metal fingertips splaying out along her back. Picking her straight up and pivoting on his feet, he settled her down into your waiting arms. Letting his fingers slowly slide off, brushing the fine hairs on her head as she rested in the crook of your elbow.

You had been home for four days now. Settling into a tentative routine of feeds and diaper changes and sleep.

The first night had been easy. Feeling a sense of longing for the hospital, with it's on-call button and nurses always ready to take over. But now the dread set in, knowing you guys were truly on your own. Completely responsible for the health and wellbeing of your  _ child _ .  


She had slept all the way home in the car seat, looking like a doll in comparison to the size of it. And you both just sat there, staring at her in the living room, at a loss for what to do now.  


_ "I mean, do we take her out?" _

_ "She's asleep." _

_ "But it's almost been four hours since she last ate!" _

Al had been cautiously curious. Excited when you walked in, chirping and winding himself through your legs. But freezing when Bucky carried in the car seat. He had kept his distance for an hour, before stalking up to you. Hopping up on the couch to sniff the little person in your arms. Bucky had been ready to send him flying if he had so much as touched her, but Al just  _ meowed _ and curled up against the blue throw pillows.  


Your daughter slept in three and four hour increments. It felt strange to refer to her by name. She was just a tiny baby and  _ Rebecca _ felt too formal. You both gave varying degrees of nicknames: little girl, sweetheart, peanut. Waiting for one to stick, as the heavy feeling of  _ this is ours - we created this _ was still sinking in.

The second night was the rude awakening. Sleeping soundly for four hours, before waking with the now familiar whimpers of hunger. Bucky had rolled out of bed, padded around to her crib and scooped her out. Bouncing her in his arms with gentle  _ shushes _ . Changing her diaper in the light of the streetlamps from outside. Handing her over to you for nursing. She went back to sleep. And then thirty minutes later she was screaming. You had taken over, trying to nurse again, but she just kept spitting and drooling around your breast. Her hands and feet broke free from the imperfect swaddle. Knees curling up to her chest and her hands bound in angry fists by her head as she wailed.  


This continued for three hours, receiving only brief respite when she would fall asleep while eating. But the moment her mouth slipped away, she was back to crying. Bucky walked with her, bouncing and shushing. Sitting on the couch, rubbing a warm hand up and down her back. Eventually, he found himself sitting behind you. Your head resting back on his shoulder as you slept. Rebecca asleep in his arms as she nursed. It was a strange position but it was working - you were sleeping and so was she.

After running down to get the mail - you had ordered a pack of zip-up swaddles after that second night - he walks into the apartment to a gorgeous sight. Basked in sunlight from the large windows by the bed, black-out curtains moved to the side, your back is facing him as you sway. Wearing your blue robe and pajama pants as you rock the little bundle in your arms. The soft music playing from the soundbar under the TV giving you the rhythm. Quietly closing the door behind him and setting the Amazon package on the counter next to Alpine, he watches you. A gentle hand caressing her little head as you sing along to the music. And he thinks to himself, maybe this is the home he had been searching for all this time.

He moves across the floor, circling his arms around you and under Rebecca, head resting on your shoulder as he stares down at the dark blue eyes and confused face of his daughter.

_ Cause I’m easy, easy like Sunday morning. _

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on my [Tumblr](https://ussgallifreyfics.tumblr.com).


End file.
